


The Adventure Of The Devil's Foot (1897)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [167]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, Egypt, F/M, Framing Story, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Organized Crime, Theft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 08:39:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11528616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: In the first of three cases to have an Egyptian connection, Sherlock has more criminals than he can shake a stick at, and an ancient piece of jewellery places an acquaintance of ours in deadly danger.





	The Adventure Of The Devil's Foot (1897)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bookworm4ever81](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookworm4ever81/gifts).



Many of our cases began with someone entering 221B Baker Street, seating themselves in the famous fireside chair, and telling us of a case that they needed our (all right, Sherlock’s) help in solving. This one, on the other hand, began when the devil himself came charging through the door, then promptly slipped and fell flat on his face!

+~+~+

It was a cold, misty evening in September, and I was grateful for the blazing fire burning merrily before us. I was reading through my notes on our recent cases, and thinking privately that my writing was indeed degenerating to Standard Received Doctor Scrawl (re my first effort at the collected works, and the errata over 'Arnsworth Castle' and the 'tired captain'). It would be a bad day if I ruined the re-telling of a case just because I could not read my own notes! 

Sherlock was sat reading some ancient treatise on Greek literature, looking even more owlish than usual in his reading-glasses. It was wonderfully domestic, except that I kept thinking about sex with Sherlock whilst he kept his glasses on (in other words, it was a perfectly normal evening). And I just knew that the slow smile the blue-eyed bastard was putting out meant that he knew full well the effect his new eye-wear was having on me. He would pay for that later! 

Or I would. I was not fussy.

Our quiet evening in was ended by a sudden pounding on 221B's front door, which along with the frantic ringing of the bell suggested more than a degree of urgency. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at me, and we listened as the door was opened by a maid. There was the brief sound of raised voices, and moments later the sound of feet pounding heavily on the stairs. Before we could rise to our feet, our door burst open... and there was a man dressed as the devil, complete with a long pitchfork on which he was leaning, trying to catch his breath!

That, incredibly, was only the first shock of the evening. The second one was that we instantly recognized him, even though it had been nearly a decade since the one time we had met him, in the case of “The Hound of the Baskervilles”. It was Mr. Marcus Crowley!

+~+~+

Mr. Crowley’s entrance would have been dramatic enough as it was, but having briefly recovered his breath, he tried to execute a sharp turn on the rug leading to the door, and proceeded to fall flat on his face with an exclamation of pained anguish. Sherlock and I looked at each other in shock, then acting as one we crossed the room and hoisted him back to his feet again. He looked at us in gratitude, but his expression was one of barely-concealed terror.

“Mr. Holmes, help me!” he ground out. 

The words were barely out of his mouth when we had our second interruption of the evening. Three large policemen surged through the open door behind Mr. Crowley, and advanced on him. I groaned inwardly when I recognized the one in the lead as Sergeant Kellett Winter, a dour-faced newcomer to the area. Indeed, his station did not even cover Baker Street, much to my immense relief. What was the annoying, overweight, pompous, self-righteous, racist, moronic oaf of an idiot doing here?

_(I may just possibly not have had the highest opinion of this man, as more than one constable had passed on disparaging remarks that he had made about both Sherlock and Inspector Henriksen. Just possibly)._

“Mr. Marcus Crowley!” the sergeant panted, his face red with the great effort all those stairs. “I arrest you.... in the name of.... the law!”

He advanced on the oddly-dressed acquaintance of ours, only for Sherlock to smoothly put himself in the way.

“In case you have not noticed, sergeant”, he said pointedly, “you are on _my_ private property.”

“Following a suspected felon!” the sergeant snapped. “Take him, lads!”

He moved as if to push Sherlock aside, which led me to growl and advance on him. He belatedly seemed to notice me, and looked surprised.

“Sergeant”, Sherlock said smoothly, “you and your men will wait in the downstairs lobby. _Not_ outside this door; the lobby. Mr. Crowley is engaging me to investigate his case” – he glanced at our still panting visitor, who looked frankly terrified – “after which one of us will escort him down to you.”

“But….” the sergeant began.

“Or do I have to telegraph my good friend _Colonel Bradford_ about his men failing to respect the time-honoured tradition that an Englishman’s home is his castle?” Sherlock said coldly. “And that he perhaps needs to take the time to review whether some of his sergeants deserve their positions, if they cannot grasp a basic tenet of English law that has existed for nearly three centuries?”

I smiled at that threat. Colonel Sir Edward Ridley Colborne Bradford, Baronet, was then the Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, and he had written to Sherlock on more than one occasion to thank him for his assistance in various cases. He was thus the person with the power to promote – or sack – our unwelcome visitor. Sergeant Winter grunted.

“One of my men will be on the stairs”, he snarled. “Boys!”

The two constables followed him out, though I caught at least one of them shooting me a covert smile when his superior’s back was turned. I managed to turn the resultant laugh into a cough. 

Sherlock and I helped Mr. Crowley to the fireside chair, and took our normal positions. Our guest’s face had faded from a red virulent enough to match his costume, and I could see that my friend was having to make an effort to avoid smiling. I could empathize.

“Mr. Crowley”, he said. “Good evening. How may we be of service?”

The man looked shocked at the sudden chain of developments, and drew a deep breath.

“The sergeant wants to charge me with theft of the Devil's Foot!" he said heavily. “And that’s not the worst. Unless they find who did it, I’m a dead man walking!”

+~+~+

“After my little run-in with the Baskervilles”, our guest began, “I moved as you know to London. Golders Green to be exact; a most charming area, and plenty of room for Growley to exercise in. Though sad to say, he passed on to that great kennel in the sky last year.”

It seemed vaguely unreal that we had one of the most dangerous criminals in the capital taking drinks with us, whilst the Metropolitan Police were champing at the bit to arrest him just yards outside our door. Such were the lives we led, I supposed. And I would not have changed them for the world.

“Why does the idi..... Sergeant Winter suspect you of the theft?” Sherlock asked. I smiled at the quite deliberate mis-speaking. Mr. Crowley shuddered.

“This evening, I went to a party at Mr. Vine’s house in Mill Hill”, he said, looking meaningfully at Sherlock. My friend nodded.

“Ah”, he said knowingly. “Am I to take it that Mr. Bercow and Miss MacIntyre were there too?” 

Our guest nodded. I looked confusedly at my friend.

“Those three, along with our guest this evening, are the leading proponents of their trade in our fair city”, he said bluntly. “And if something has happened to endanger the position of any one of them, it would be _greatly_ to the advantage of the other three. Although possibly less to their foot-soldiers, who would soon become what is cruelly if accurately called 'cannon fodder'.”

“Indeed”, our guest said, now fully recovered. “I should add, because I know both of you are probably wondering, that we were but four guests among over thirty, and it was a costume party.”

“Even I might have worked that one out!” I snorted (it was completely unfair that they both looked at me in that way).

“Mr. Vine was displaying a recent acquisition of his, a turquoise bracelet from the time of the Pharaohs”, Mr. Crowley continued. “A pure gold piece known as the Devil's Foot, because of both the shape and the repeated attempts that have been made to steal it. It has been verified as of its time by several leading antiquarians, and is supposed to be a fertility charm. He invited the three of us to look at it….”

“To boast about it, you mean”, Sherlock cut in. Our guest smiled, but nodded.

“That is true”, he said. “We examined the bracelet - it was a fine piece of work, I thought - before we adjourned to the next room to discuss certain, ahem, business matters.”

“Which are only my concern in that I need to know both how long you were in there, and if anyone left during that time”, Sherlock said smoothly. "Anything else is unimportant, to me at least."

“Thank you”, our guest said, visibly relieved. “No-one left the room during the meeting, which lasted for a little over half an hour; the clock struck the half-hour before we entered, and the hour not long after we left. Mr. Vine had placed a guard at the connecting door back to the room where the bracelet was, as well as a second at the door from that room into the corridor, and even one at the balcony window.”

“Yet it was still stolen?” Sherlock said. Mr. Crowley groaned. 

“It was the oldest trick in the book!” he said sadly. “I felt such a fool afterwards. There was the sound of a small explosion, possibly a shot, from the front of the house, and Mr. Vine went to investigate, saying that we should wait for him. Miss MacIntyre suggested that we could pass the time by looking at the bracelet again, so we went back into the other room. There was only one guard left, the one by the window. But he stayed in the room the whole time that we were there.”

“How long was Mr. Vine gone for?” Sherlock asked.

“I think about five to ten minutes”, Mr. Crowley said. “He was very annoyed when he came back. Some boy letting off a firework in the neighbourhood, he said.”

“Were you still in the bracelet room when he returned?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you go from there, and who went first?” Sherlock asked.

Our guest had to think about that one. 

“Mr. Bercow went first, back into the other room”, he said. “Then myself, then Mr. Vine and finally Miss MacIntyre. I would think that there was but ten seconds between all of us. We talked for not more than ten minutes more, I think, then returned downstairs, but not through the bracelet room.”

Sherlock pressed his fingers together.

“This bracelet”, he said. “Is it particularly famous?”

“Most definitely”, Mr. Crowley said. “The last owner before Mr. Vine, Lord Brading, loaned it to the British Museum for a time, and I saw it there. I would have liked it for myself, but I could never have afforded it.”

“Did you take it?”

“Sir?” Mr. Crowley looked shocked.

“Come, now”, Sherlock said. “You know from our previous encounter that my interests lie in the pursuit of justice, not necessarily the strict letter of the law, which can be a blunt instrument at times. And talking of blunt instruments, we must I suppose consider poor Sergeant Winter, who is either wearing a hole in Mrs. Singer’s hall carpet or has been thrown out onto the roadway for being an annoyance. More likely the latter, I suspect; if he has been truly unlucky he will have discovered that she has a rifle and is not afraid to demonstrate that fact, no matter how slow of comprehension the offender. Tell me, how did these people come to think that _you_ had stolen the bracelet?”

“It must have been half an hour or so later that the hue and cry went up that it had been stolen”, our guest recalled. “Mr. Vine insisted that it must have been one of us, and pulled us all into a side-room. It was pitch-black, and he put on some odd sort of blue light. Then he told us that he had protected the bracelet casing with a paint that could only be detected under this light, and my hands were glowing blue. I managed to knock over the light and get away in the confusion.”

“Could anyone had transferred that paint onto your costume without your being aware of it?” Sherlock asked.

“I smelt it in the cab coming here”, our visitor said, “so there was no way I would have missed it if it had been there at the start of the evening. I shook hands only with the three people I have mentioned, and any of them could have done it then.”

“Miss MacIntyre shook hands?” I asked, surprised.

“Yes”, our guest said. “She is.... quite modern.”

“I suppose that we have kept the sergeant waiting long enough”, Sherlock said. “I am sure that someone in your position has access to a high-quality lawyer, so if you recall anything else of import, please send it to me through them. Doctor, would you please escort Mr. Crowley downstairs?”

“You will help me?” our guest asked.

“Of course”, Sherlock said. “The price will be the same as last time, should I succeed. One unspecified future favour, to be honoured at a time and place of my choosing without question or delay.”

Mr. Crowley nodded, and I led him out of the room. Sherlock had been right; Sergeant Winter had successfully annoyed Mrs. Singer enough for her to make him (but not his constables, I noted) wait outside in the rain. I hoped that I did not smile too much as I let the constables out with their captive. Though judging by the annoyed look on the sergeant's face, I probably did.

The snigger may not have exactly helped matters, either.

+~+~+

“This is serious, John”, Sherlock said once I had returned to the room. “Deadly serious. We must solve this case as soon as possible, otherwise the three suspects will be doing their level best to undermine Mr. Crowley’s network.”

“Would that be a bad thing?” I wondered. Sherlock smiled.

“It seems an unfortunate thing to say given his costume tonight”, he said, “but I think that this is truly a case of ‘better the devil we know’. Let us start with the hypothesis that Mr. Crowley was set up, since he is no fool and would not seek to engage me if he feared that I might prove him guilty. In which case one of the three people there must have done it.”

He thought for some time, then smiled.

“I have an idea”, he said. “But we are going to have to persuade a hardened criminal to co-operate with our investigation. It will not be easy!”

+~+~+

The following morning, we took a cab to "The Saints", the Mill Hill home of Mr. Timothy Vine. I cannot say that the criminal lifestyle did him any favours in his appearance, that of a bloated, blond hulk of a man who had a clear tendency towards gluttony. Little wonder that he needed a fertility charm and it would have needed to be a powerful one to boot. He scowled at us from across the study table.

“Didn’t know this was your sort of thing, Mr. Holmes”, he said tartly. 

“I have had dealings with Mr. Marcus Crowley before”, Sherlock said politely, “and bearing in mind what is at stake here, I would crave your indulgence.”

“Why?” 

“For your own continued existence, to start with. I am against most people being dispatched before their time, on principle.”

The man’s eyes bulged. 

“What?” 

“Consider sir, if you will, the possibility that Mr. Crowley may be telling the truth when he claimed not to have taken your bracelet”, Sherlock said gently. “Now, let us follow that on, and assume that either Miss MacIntyre or Mr. Bercow is guilty. Consider then how much _they_ have to gain.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Let us talk plainly”, Sherlock said. “You are all criminals.” He held up his hand when the man looked set to protest. “I know people talk about the concept of 'honour among thieves', but I am here to represent Mr. Crowley, who is a criminal; I do not disillusion myself as to that fact. I merely wish to see justice done for all, and I firmly believe it is in your interests to see that, too. Remember, both Miss MacIntyre and Mr. Bercow had the chance to take the Devil's Foot as well.”

“Neither Virginia nor John would behave in such a manner!” the man spluttered.

Sherlock leant forward. 

“You are prepared to bet your life on that?” he asked pointedly. The criminal shuddered.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“To interview the three security guards who you had stationed around the bracelet”, Sherlock said. 

“They are my most loyal men”, Mr. Vine said testily. “They would not betray me.”

“Yet your bracelet is gone”, Sherlock pointed out.

The big man reddened at that.

“Ah”, he said.

We both looked hard at him.

“'Ah?'” Sherlock said. 

“I may have, sort of, um, found it this morning”, he admitted, red-faced. “I was examining the stand on which the case had been mounted, and felt something sticking out from under the covers on the table. It turned out to be the bracelet.”

Sherlock eyed him coolly. The man visibly wilted.

“You did, I presume, immediately communicate this information to the local police station?” he asked.

“I was just going to”, he said. 

I refrained from laughing. But it was a near thing.

“May we see it, please?” Sherlock said. “And there is of course the small matter as to how it got under there.”

“Of course”, the man said gruffly, seemingly glad to change the subject slightly. “Come this way.”

+~+~+

The Ancient Egyptians had produced a beautiful piece, I thought. The bracelet shone as if it has been fresh out of the goldsmith's workshop, and the turquoise, which I knew was a difficult stone to work with as it is relatively soft, shone almost as blue as my friend's eyes. Sherlock spent some time examining it, being careful to only touch it with his handkerchief, and even looked at the stone through his lens. Then he nodded, as if reaching a conclusion.

“Mr. Crowley told me that two of the guards left the room at the firework explosion, and one stayed behind”, he said. “I think that I still need to speak with that man, if you please.”

“Very well”, Mr. Vine said crossly. “I trust you have no objection in my being there when you question him?”

“I would welcome it”, Sherlock smiled, to his evident surprise. 

+~+~+

“Joe Biggerson, sir”, the hulking man before us said. 

“Sit down, please, Mr. Biggerson”, Sherlock said pleasantly. “I am afraid that this interview will be most unpleasant for you, so let us endeavour to keep it short.”

The huge man glanced nervously at his boss, who merely nodded.

“I have one main question for you”, Sherlock said. “Who was the lady?”

“Sir?”

“The lady who made you abandon your post, Mr. Biggerson”, Sherlock said sharply. “Kindly describe her to us.”

The man looked horrified, but blundered into speech.

“It was after everyone had gone down, sir”, he said, his face even redder than Mr. Vine's had been. “This lady came out of an upstairs room and said she had heard there was a fabulous bracelet here, and would I allow her to see it? I thought there no harm, provided I stayed with her. But she felt a bit woozy after she put it back, so I took her along and halfway down the stairs, where Ben was on guard. Then I went and stood outside the door again. The thing was there then; we all saw it!”

Sherlock shook his head at him. I felt a little for the fellow; he was in the sort of business where mistakes could, quite literally, be the death of him.

“Who is this lady?” Mr. Vine demanded. 

“Clearly someone working for either Miss MacIntyre or Mr. Bercow”, Sherlock said. “Mr. Biggerson, did you see anyone else around this time?”

“Only the gentleman dressed as the devil sir”, he said. “He came along the corridor as I was taking the lady down. But I'd locked the door, I swear!”

“A locked door wouldn't keep old Crowley out!” Mr. Vine snapped. “I knew it!”

“Hmm”, Sherlock said. “I forgot to ask Mr. Crowley; what costumes were the rest of you wearing?”

“Costumes?” Mr. Vine asked, clearly puzzled.

“Mr. Crowley was wearing a devil's costume when he arrived at Baker Street”, Sherlock said patiently. “I like to have _all_ the facts, as sometimes the most inconsequential amongst them can be important. What did the rest of you wear?”

“Oh. I was Mr. Pickwick, from Dickens. Mr. Bercow came as Robert the Bruce, kilt and all. And Miss MacIntyre was Mary Queen of Scots.”

“That is most interesting”, Sherlock said with a smile. “They have of course contacted you this morning and suggested an immediate move against Mr. Crowley's organization, whilst he is still under arrest.”

Mr. Vine held his gaze for some moments, but no-one could out-stare Sherlock when he set his mind to it. The man blinked several times, and nodded.

“How did you know that?” he asked warily.

“I have a recommendation for you”, Sherlock said. “You do not, of course, have to follow it, but failure to do so will almost certainly result in your death, so it is rather advisable. Tell Miss MacIntyre and Mr. Bercow that a family emergency has called you away – be sure to go somewhere as well, as they will doubtless be watching – and that whilst you wish to move against Mr. Crowley with them, you need twenty-four hours. Your contacts at the police station have assured you that he cannot be released for some days, so it is not a problem. I will return tomorrow, and tell you how it was done.”

Mr. Vine looked uncertainly at him, but nodded his agreement, and we left.

+~+~+

Sherlock was unusually quiet on the journey back to Baker Street, and I wondered why.

“All that stuff and nonsense about the bracelet being a fertility charm!” I scoffed as we entered our rooms. “It certainly didn't seem to have made Mr. Vine any the more attractive.

I jumped as Sherlock slammed the door behind me, and turned to look at him. His eyes had glazed over, and he looked positively feral. I gulped.

“My room!” he snarled. “Now!”

I sprinted for his door, and mercifully he was still undressing so I made it to his bedside. However, I had barely got off my shoes before a naked and very horny man was on me, all but ripping my trousers off of me before throwing me onto the bed. I tried to shed my shirt, but Sherlock looked almost manic as he just pushed it up and worked me open far quicker than usual, before burying himself inside me with a pleasured groan. And before I could adjust, he was going straight for my prostate, jerking me off with one hand whilst supporting himself with the other. I had time for one brief whine before I came all over my shirt, my head falling back onto the pillow. 

Except that instead of following me over the edge as was usual, Sherlock continued to attack my prostate. Either he was exercising monumental self-control, or he had applied a cock-ring to himself, and I suspected the latter. Incredibly I was growing hard again, which for a man of forty-five years of age was not bad going. 

Sherlock seemed to be working me around even more than usual, and I was close to a second orgasm when I felt my entrance being stretched even further. Damn it, Sherlock was pushing the vibrator in – the huge one that I had mentally nicknamed 'the rolling-pin'. That was it, I erupted for a second time, this time splattering his chest. Yet he didn't seem to slow down even then, and I whined piteously as my prostate was tortured like never before.

He worked the thing around inside me until I pretty much lost all feeling down there, then removed it and pushed back in himself. There was no way I could manage a third time – or so I thought, until Sherlock must have removed the cock-ring and was coming forcefully inside of me, growling fiercely as I was filled up. My eruption was weak compared to the first two, and my cock was almost painfully sore, but he kept going inside of me, and at some point I must have passed out, because the next thing that I remembered was waking up and wondering if my legs were going to be even more bowed than before.

+~+~+

Somehow I managed to get up the next morning, though only to collapse on the couch. Sherlock brought me my breakfast over and fondly ran his fingers through my hair; of course the bastard seemed unaffected by my ordeal. I made a mental note to leave the bathroom door open when I eventually took the bath I needed, in case I just collapsed in there. And in case Sherlock wanted to come in and help me out.

He did. And did.

+~+~+

Later that morning (once I could again master the tricky task known as walking) we returned to Mr. Vine's house. The man was clearly champing at the bit, but we had not been there five minutes before we were interrupted by one of Mr. Vine's servants, who whispered something to him. He shook his head.

“I am busy”, he said. “He will have to wait, or call later.”

“If that is Inspector Bradley, then you should allow him to come up”, Sherlock said. “I invited him here.”

“You did what?” Mr. Vine almost yelled.

“I thought it best. After all, a crime has been committed. And you strike me as the sort of person who would rather that it was all sorted out quickly, today if possible. Unless you would rather that the police spend months investigating every single aspect of your affairs?”

“No!” the man almost squeaked. “Send him up!”

+~+~+

“Whilst I was coming here yesterday”, Sherlock began, “one thing struck me particularly about this crime. Assuming that Mr. Crowley was innocent, it had to be one of the other three people, surely? But a 'turf war', as the expression goes, is a dangerous thing, and in this line of business, it can often be fatal. Like on the battlefield, one is never sure if there may come a moment when ones allies may suddenly turn their coats. So, I considered an alternative. Suppose that _two_ of the other three had connived in the framing of Mr. Crowley. They would be in a far stronger position, because they could form a temporary alliance with the third person to destroy my client's organization, and then choose their moment to turn on their unsuspecting 'partner'. Thus it was not which of a group of people was guilty, but which was innocent. I was fortunate to establish quite early on that you, Mr. Vine, were the innocent party.”

“Of course!” he growled. 

Sherlock smiled beatifically at him. I reached twelve before the criminal broke.

“Er, how, exactly?” he asked.

“Because that bauble on display upstairs is a fake.”

“What?” Our host shot to his feet.

“Calm yourself”, Sherlock said. “Doubtless Miss MacIntyre and Mr. Bercow are currently having a most pleasant discussion as to how to make the maximum amount of money from the original, which is currently in their possession.”

“Sir, you will have to be more explicit”, Inspector Bradley intoned. “I cannot send men into either of these people's houses without a good reason.”

I can!" Mr. Bine growled.

“I will tell you how the crime was committed”, Sherlock said. “It was quite ingenious, I must say. First, there were two clues in the costumes that the people chose.”

“The costumes?” Mr. Vine asked.

“Both Miss MacIntyre and Mr. Bercow chose Scots rulers”, Sherlock said. “A natural choice for the lady with her Scots ancestry, but Mr. Bercow is almost completely English save for one Welsh great-grandparent. However, as Robert the Bruce, he was wearing a kilt. The sporran worn at the front of that item of apparel is a receptacle most ideal for storing small items - such as the Devil's Foot.”

“But when did he take it?” Mr. Vine asked. “There was never an opportunity.”

“Whilst you and two of the guards were outside, investigating that oddly-timed firework, Miss MacIntyre talked with Mr. Crowley, and Mr. Bercow waited for the remaining guard to become distracted for a moment. Since the Devil's Foot was on display at the British Museum only recently, it would have featured in their catalogue, and it was easy for Mr. Bercow and Miss MacIntyre to order the replica that they brought with them that evening, the item which is currently upstairs. Mr. Bercow is an expert thief, and a quick sleight of hand made sure that the switch passed unnoticed.”

“The bastard!” Mr. Vine ground out. 

“The fact you did not know that it was a fake upstairs showed that _you_ were the one person not included in the scheme”, Sherlock went on. “You did however neglect to tell me one thing, namely that the idea for the fluorescent paint came from your fellow 'business associates'. I dare say that Miss MacIntyre had some paint on her lady's gloves when she shook hands with Mr. Crowley earlier in the evening, then made sure to dispose of them before the 'theft' was discovered. Most probably in a fireplace.”

“But what about the woman who distracted the guard?” Mr. Vine asked. “What was the point of that if the thing had already been switched?”

“Because the item had to be taken _at the right time_ in order to focus suspicion on Mr. Crowley”, Sherlock said. “Lying is an inherent part of your profession, sir, but withholding information from a private detective is never in your interests. As Mr. Biggerson said, Mr. Crowley went back upstairs later for another look at the Devil's Foot. One of Miss MacIntyre's agents was waiting for him to do exactly that. When she saw him leave the party, she quickly distracted the guard, so suspicion would fall on the intended target. The agent, or a second associate, probably also took the opportunity to slip the replica beneath the table once all the fuss had died down, where it would be found later to your eternal embarrassment.”

Mr. Vine blushed.

“So which of them has it, do you think?” the inspector asked.

“I would try Miss MacIntyre first”, Sherlock said. “As Mr. Bercow is not only unpleasant but also deeply misogynistic, the distracting lady must have been in her pay. It is ironic, I suppose, that such a man as he was prepared to work with a woman to remove two male rivals, though once they had finished, they would inevitably have turned on each other.”

“I shall go there now”, the inspector said, standing up. “Thank you, sir.”

“Yes, thank you”, Mr, Vine echoed. “I only hope that I get the thing back.”

+~+~+

He did. The bracelet was traced to Miss MacIntyre's house, as Sherlock had predicted, but obtaining a prosecution against them proved impossible due to the lack of witnesses. However, Mr. Crowley was fulsome in his gratitude at being released (the sulky pout on Sergeant Winter's face was particularly pleasurable!), and he later told us that both Miss MacIntyre and Mr. Bercow had both subsequently decided to 'retire from the business'.

+~+~+

Two more cases with ties to the lands of the Nile would follow this one, and next time it would be a matter of double-crossing and deceit.


End file.
